Su Yan’s temporary residence in Pingliang was near the government office, making it convenient for him to handle affairs. Besides Jinghong Zhui and a couple of servants, Chu Yuan led the first batch of imperial guards stationed at the front courtyard as security.
An additional five thousand imperial guards had arrived later, most of them camped in the outskirts, rotating shifts to ensure Su Yan always had enough protection when traveling.
The security was impenetrable, tighter than an iron fortress.
Even Su Yan sometimes felt they were overdoing it. Is this really necessary? He was only a seventh-rank Censorate official—using the emperor’s personal troops like this would definitely draw criticism from court officials if it went on too long.
Long Quan, the commander of the Tengxiang Guards, reassured him: “No need to worry, Lord Su. His Majesty has given clear instructions. Court debates won’t be a concern—His Majesty will handle it. We won’t be stationed in Shaanxi permanently. Once the situation stabilizes and the military reforms are in place, we’ll withdraw in phases.”
Su Yan nodded. “That’s how it should be. You all are imperial guards—your primary duty is protecting the emperor, after all.”
The emperor’s elite forces were divided into twenty-six divisions. The Embroidered Uniform Guard handled surveillance, ceremonial duties, arrests, and investigations. The Jinwu and Yulin divisions were responsible for patrolling and guarding the palace. The four Tengxiang divisions, including Long Quan’s, were the emperor’s personal bodyguards. The Qishou Guard managed banners and signals, while the Fu Army oversaw the training of new recruits.
Most of the Jinwu and Yulin guards remained stationed inside the Forbidden City. In reality, the emperor relied most on the Embroidered Uniform Guard and Tengxiang Guards, as they were the most mobile and versatile forces.
The Tengxiang Guards had over forty thousand troops, commanded by the eunuchs and directly answering to the emperor. The Embroidered Uniform Guard, excluding ceremonial units, numbered around six thousand—most of whom were here, with the remainder stationed at the North and South Surveillance Bureau in the capital.
For some reason, a thought crossed Su Yan’s mind, and he asked absentmindedly, “Are the Northern Surveillance Bureau in the capital… adequately staffed?”
Long Quan was taken aback. “They should be. Their main duties are arrests and interrogations, and there’s been no major unrest requiring large-scale action.”
Su Yan intertwined his fingers, rubbing his index fingers together—a subconscious habit when deep in thought. After a few seconds, he spoke again:
“Has something happened with the Embroidered Uniform Guard?”
Long Quan frowned. “Why do you ask, Lord Su?”
Su Yan said, “I once worked on reorganizing the Embroidered Uniform Guard, so I have some continued interest in its affairs. After Feng Que was brought to justice, I wonder what the new chief officer is like in terms of ability and temperament.”
Long Quan was quick-witted and immediately understood—Censor Su was indirectly asking why the five thousand Embroidered Uniform Guards were under his command as the Left Commandant of the Tengxiang Guard. Did that mean the Embroidered Uniform Guard no longer had a commanding officer?
He chuckled and explained, “His Majesty has yet to appoint a new chief officer, so the position of the Embroidered Uniform Guard Commandant remains vacant. My assignment here is temporary. Initially, His Majesty designated another Embroidered Uniform Guard officer to take the role, but unfortunately, he fell from his horse and broke his leg before departure.”
Su Yan instinctively asked, “What’s his surname?”
“Xin.”
Su Yan unconsciously let out a sigh of relief.
Shaanxi was a thousand miles away from the capital, making communication difficult. News from the capital didn’t always reach him promptly.
Even messages sent via carrier pigeons had to reach a designated official pigeon post first, where pigeons originally brought from the capital could then return along the same route. They couldn’t just fly anywhere at will.
Thus, unless there was an emergency, he rarely used carrier pigeons.
Official dispatches and memorials were primarily delivered via the express relay system.
Over the past three to four months, he had received only ten personal letters—excluding the emperor’s secret decrees. Seven of those were from the crown prince, chattering endlessly.
Shen Qi had written him three letters. Though not lengthy, they were clearly deeply considered. Even the ink marks on the page bore an intensity as if the emotions were about to burst forth.
The first letter began with “Dear Wife,” for which Su Yan scolded him in his reply. From the second letter onward, the salutation was changed to “Good Brother.” But coming from Shen Qi, those three words felt oddly out of place. Su Yan always suspected there was some hidden meaning, yet he couldn’t find a reason to call him out on it.
The content of the letters left no room for reproach either—there wasn’t a single frivolous word, yet every phrase was filled with concern; there were no direct declarations of longing, yet the attachment seeped through the paper.
Sometimes, it was about daily life:
“You once ate grapes at my home and said they were sweet. They’re going out of season now. I wanted to store some fresh ones in the ice cellar, but they don’t keep well, so I made them into wine instead. Using the recipe you gave me—three pounds of grapes to one pound of sugar—I’ve bottled it after fermentation. In half a year, it should be ready to drink. By then, you should be home for the New Year.”
Sometimes, he revealed his ambitions:
“I’ve handled several significant cases and have been promoted from Qianhu to Jinshi, then to Tongzhi. Back in the Eastern Garden, you said my influence wasn’t strong enough, that clinging to me might end up breaking my ‘thin branch.’ Now, it’s a bit sturdier, but still not enough. No matter how high I climb, I will always be beneath others. But at the very least, let me climb higher—higher still—so I can provide you with more support.”
And sometimes, there were just a few cryptic words:
“The Buddha saves all beings, yet refuses to save me. You save me instead.”
Su Yan kept every letter in leather pouches—one for Shen Qi, one for the crown prince, and one for the emperor. These three pouches were buried deep in his baggage, carried with him no matter which city he traveled to.
To the emperor, he wrote memorials with hidden acrostics, concealing playful or admiring thoughts within the solemn reports.
To the crown prince, he had replied seven times, sharing his travels, interesting anecdotes, and amusing observations.
But to Shen Qi, he had only written back once. A few days ago, he had sent a reply—thirty-one characters long—a seven-character quatrain.
—Back in his past life, when taking elective courses, Su Yan had always struggled with composing regulated poetry. The tonal balance gave him headaches. When he first arrived in this world, during the banquet honoring newly appointed officials, the emperor had ordered him to compose a poem. Afraid of embarrassing himself, he had hastily cobbled together a doggerel verse to muddle through.
But now, he wanted to write a real poem. He wouldn’t plagiarize anything from within five hundred years of history, nor steal poetic phrases from modern internet quotes—he would just sit down and genuinely craft one himself.
Taking a few sips of warm northern wine to ward off the cold, he chewed on his brush handle, gazed at the frost-covered maple and chrysanthemums outside his window, and dipped his brush in ink:
“Wine stains the frost-clad forest in a drunken sunset glow,
Wind sweeps yellow blossoms like curling clouds below.
Cold nights, a weary body clings to heavy quilts,
Idle verses penned, a letter to you bestow.”
When he finished, he found the last two lines too melancholic and reminiscent of a lonely woman’s lament. Dissatisfied, he crumpled the paper and tossed it aside.
After further contemplation, he wrote again:
“This body yet lingers beyond a thousand peaks,
One night, in dreams, I cross pavilion eaves.
If fate allows me to return to my old garden,
Let chrysanthemums bloom idly, steeped in wine’s reprieve.”
He felt this was much better—expressing deep commitment while maintaining an air of ease. But the words “chrysanthemum” and “bloom” made him think of something inappropriate, so he furiously crumpled it up and threw it away.
Scratching his forehead, he sighed in frustration. Eventually, he managed to compose a poem that fit the meter and subtly conveyed his sentiments. Worried that further revisions would kill more brain cells, he quickly stuffed it into an envelope and sent it off.
—
Far away in the capital, Shen Qi eagerly opened the long-awaited reply. Inside was a seven-character quatrain titled Yearning Thoughts:
“The pure moonlight slips through the sparse curtain,
Waxing and waning, the crescent bows again.
Awake from dreams of geese, seeking written silk,
Counting fleeting years where fallen flowers remain.”
He read it over and over, sensing a hint of longing, yet it could also simply be a lament on the passing years. Shen Qi couldn’t decide and cursed himself for not having studied poetry more thoroughly. Frustrated, he copied it down by hand and sought out a seasoned scholar who had failed the imperial exams and later joined the Embroidered Uniform Guard as a banner officer.
The ex-scholar examined the poem, immediately flattering Shen Qi for his refined taste. Impatient, Shen Qi cut him off: “I asked for an interpretation, not a critique. I don’t care if it’s a masterpiece or not—I just want to know if the poet had a particular intention.”
“What intention?” The banner officer was confused.
Shen Qi shot him a sharp glare. “Traveling such a long way and sending only a single poem—you tell me what kind of intention that implies!”
“Oh—” The banner officer suddenly understood. He pointed at the third line, “Look, ‘geese’ symbolize deep affection and are also messengers, hence the saying ‘swans carry letters.’ Meanwhile, ‘written silk’ references the story of ‘fish transmitting letters,’ which signifies an exchange of love letters. This line describes how the poet wakes up from a dream of geese and immediately searches for a letter from his beloved.”
Hearing this, Shen Qi barely contained his delight. Still, he maintained a calm exterior, offering a nonchalant nod before dismissing the officer.
Once alone, he held the poem tightly in his hands, unable to stop the corners of his lips from curling into a satisfied smile.
As soon as the messenger left, Shen Qi clutched the letter paper tightly to his chest, as if trying to suppress the wild pounding of his heart.
He placed this letter alongside the previous one in a brocade pouch, keeping it close to his chest during the day and tucking it beneath his pillow at night. Each day felt like a year as he anxiously speculated about Su Yan’s return.
Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Shaanxi, Su Yan found himself momentarily distracted during his conversation with Long Quan, his thoughts drifting to the letters exchanged between them. It wasn’t until Long Quan called his name several times that he snapped back to reality, smiling somewhat sheepishly. “A bit tired, not at my best.”
Long Quan said, “My lord, you should rest well. As for the messenger claiming to be from Yu Wang’s residence, why not see him tomorrow instead?”
“No need. Bring him to the study. I’ll feel more at ease once I’ve heard him out.”
—
Inside the study, Su Yan invited the messenger to sit and, after giving him a once-over, asked, “Is your injury serious?”
The messenger shook his head. “Thank you for your concern, my lord. Just some minor wounds—nothing serious.”
“How did you end up in the hands of the Pingliang County King? And why were you beaten?”
“I am a personal guard of Yu Wang, sent on a mission to deliver a letter to you, my lord. I had planned to wait outside the residence until you came out, but somehow, I caught the attention of his guards. Before I knew it, more than a dozen men ambushed me from behind, threw a sack over me, and dragged me inside.” The messenger looked ashamed. “I was careless. I assumed the streets of the city would be safe.”
Su Yan clicked his tongue, his tone laced with sarcasm. “I’ve seen Yu Wang attend the Dragon Boat Festival archery contest, always surrounded by an entourage. Even in the capital, he has guards accompanying him. So why is it that he couldn’t spare a few men to protect a mere messenger?”
The messenger replied solemnly, “It’s not that he was unwilling, but that he had no choice. Ever since His Majesty issued a ban ten years ago, Wangye has been unable to step beyond the Jingji boundary. Even when he sends people out of the capital, they remain under strict scrutiny. For him to secretly send me to Shaanxi was already a great risk. If the emperor were to find out—”
He paused before continuing, “Before I left, Wangye instructed me to personally deliver the letter to you, my lord, and to bring back a reply. If I return empty-handed, I might as well not go back at all. But that letter was forcibly taken by the Pingliang County King. My lord, were you able to recover it?”
Yes, he had recovered it. But Su Yan hadn’t opened it—he feared it would burn his eyes and enrage him to the point of liver failure. He had nearly burned it to ash on the spot.
With a dark expression, he pulled out the letter and slapped it onto the desk. “Take this back to him exactly as it is and tell him—I don’t want to read it.”
“How can I do that?” The messenger looked troubled. “If I return without results, I won’t be able to answer to Wangye.”
Seeing that Su Yan remained unmoved, the messenger stepped forward, half-knelt, and clasped his hands in a pleading gesture. “Please, my lord, have mercy on my months of hardship. Just take one look at the letter!”
Su Yan saw the bruises on the man’s face, the bandages on his forehead still stained with blood, and his swollen eyes filled with desperate entreaty. He sighed. No matter how much he loathed Yu Wang, it didn’t seem right to take it out on a mere messenger who had suffered so much to complete his duty.
So he said, “I won’t read the letter. But I can write a reply for you to deliver, so you won’t return empty-handed.”
The messenger was deeply grateful.
Su Yan rose, took a blank sheet of plain white paper, dipped his brush in ink, and without hesitation, scrawled four bold, sweeping characters.
Overflowing with emotion, he surpassed his usual writing style—breaking free from the restraint of clarity and elegance, his strokes carried the soaring intensity of a true calligrapher.
The words read:
“F*ck your mother!”
Setting his brush down, Su Yan felt a strange sense of exhilaration, fueled by malicious delight. He let the ink dry, folded the paper into a kraft envelope, and handed it to the messenger. “Here, the reply he wanted.”
The messenger dared not question what was written. He carefully placed the letter into his robe, treating it as a precious item.
Su Yan added, “Shaanxi isn’t the safest place. I’ll assign two Embroidered Uniform Guards to escort you back to the capital, just in case anything happens along the way.”
The messenger thanked him profusely before taking his leave.
Outside the study, Jinghong Zhui had been waiting. When he saw the door open, he stepped inside. He seemed to have something to say but hesitated, as if unsure how to voice it. Su Yan caught the mix of suspicion, anger, and apprehension on his face and couldn’t help but laugh. “Do you know what you look like right now?”
Jinghong Zhui played along. “I don’t know. Please enlighten me, my lord.”
Su Yan chuckled. “Like a henpecked husband who suspects his wife of cheating but doesn’t dare ask outright.”
Jinghong Zhui flushed red and blurted out, “I was worried about you, my lord! You went in for a private conversation and came out in fresh clothes—what exactly did the Pingliang County King do to you?”
Su Yan couldn’t hold back his laughter anymore. Wiping away the tears that came from laughing too hard, he waved a hand dismissively. “You should be asking what I did to him. Hahaha… I’d bet my life that he’ll never dare come within ten feet of me again, let alone be alone with me.”
Jinghong Zhui finally relaxed, stepping closer to his lord. The desk was still cluttered with writing materials. Glancing down, he asked, “Did you reply to Yu Wang’s letter?”
Su Yan nodded, grinning. “I guarantee that when he sees it, his nose will be so bent out of shape with anger that he won’t be able to breathe.”
“Yu Wang is a disgrace. He has wasted his martial prowess.” Jinghong Zhui’s lips curled with a hint of frost-like amusement. “When we return to the capital, if that b*stard Wangye dares harass you again, I’ll assassinate him.”
